The road out of Merrow was quiet at dawn, mist clinging to the cobblestones like a shroud. The river reflected gray light from a sky that seemed reluctant to fully wake. I walked alone, cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed on my back. The city I left behind slept, unaware of the subtle shift that had occurred in one of its residents. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures.
The journey ahead was short—a neighboring town, modest in size, ordinary in every conceivable way. Yet ordinary places are predictable, and predictability is power. Every guard, merchant, and child leaves traces in the patterns of their behavior. A missed step, a glance too long, a hand brushing coins—these are clues. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
The whisper arrived faintly, soft as breath against the back of my mind: "…kill."
Not a command. Not a demand. Presence. Patient. Alive. Waiting. I ignored it. Observation first. Patience sharpens intent. Calculation guides survival.
The town lay half-hidden behind rolling hills, framed by fields of wheat bending in the morning breeze. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys. Children ran barefoot through streets that smelled faintly of bread and livestock. Merchants shouted prices no one would pay. Soldiers strutted, confident in their training and their numbers. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I entered the market, unnoticed. Not unseen—people rarely notice shadows, but the truly observant are impossible to ignore if they wish. Observation is power when unrecognized. Guards ignored me. Merchants ignored me. Citizens ignored me. Perfect.
I counted patterns, as always. Guard rotations, routes from watch posts to the barracks, gaps in patrols, narrow alleys where escape or confrontation might be forced. People betray themselves in small ways. Children skip too quickly, merchants hesitate in the wrong moment, soldiers glance too often at the sky. Mistakes, waiting to be exploited. Observation always precedes action.
The whisper came again: "…kill."
Voraciel hummed faintly against my back. Warmth, responsive, alive. Not a command. Not a demand. Presence. Patient. Waiting. I ignored it. Not yet. Patience is the sharpest blade.
By midday, I had mapped the town in my mind. Every major street. Every choke point. Every entrance and exit to guard posts, warehouses, and merchant shops. Minor alleys where shadows pooled. Roofs that could be climbed silently. Supplies that could be redirected or disrupted. Every pattern laid bare before my attention. Ordinary mistakes. Ordinary people. Observation pays dividends.
I made no immediate move. Not yet. I waited. The city continues when you do not act, but the first step always matters. Watching is preparation. Knowledge is power. Timing is everything.
The whisper returned faintly at the edge of my mind: "…kill."
I touched Voraciel lightly. The sword responded to the motion, subtle warmth spreading through my palm and up my arm. Alive. Patient. Waiting. Not yet. Not now. Observation and calculation always come first.
Evening fell slowly, lanterns casting golden light on cobblestones slick with mist. The smell of baking bread and smoke mingled with river water carried through the narrow streets. I positioned myself in a quiet alley, just off the market square. Perfect vantage. Perfect observation. Perfect preparation. Ordinary citizens passed me by, unaware. Predictable. Safe. For now.
Three men approached the square, carrying crates of goods. Ordinary enough to attract attention only if they made mistakes. Guards were distracted, busy with trivial inspections, unaware of potential threats. Ordinary mistakes are everywhere if you know how to see them. Observation always pays.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
The whisper sharpened as my hand brushed Voraciel's hilt. The sword hummed faintly, the warmth spreading into my arm, resonating with intent rather than anger, morality, or thrill. Shadows lengthened subtly, responding to motion and thought. The first man faltered mid-step, disoriented by a sudden, subtle force. His companions froze, hesitation marking them, mistakes multiplying.
I moved deliberately. Footfalls silent, intent precise. Not chaotic. Not rushed. Controlled. Efficient. Pure. Bloodlust is power, refined by calculation.
By the time the last man collapsed, unconscious, the alley was silent. My breathing was slow, measured. Voraciel pulsed faintly in my hands. Patient. Alive. Waiting. No one had seen me. No one would know. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
I withdrew from the alley, blending into the evening streets as if I were no one at all. Lanterns glowed softly. Merchants closed shops, counting coins with nervous calculation. Children ran through puddles, pretending the world was a game. Soldiers walked as though duty gave them purpose. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
The whisper returned faintly at the edge of thought: "…kill."
I ignored it. Patience first. Observation always. The sword would wait. I had chosen when to act, controlled the outcome, survived. That is enough for now.
I rented a small room at the edge of town, overlooking the narrow river that bisected the settlement. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible.
Yet beneath the quiet, I felt the pulse of intent growing. Voraciel had acknowledged me. The whisper had been patient. Bloodlust is awakening. The first technique is mastered. Control is everything.
I traced the edge of the black blade with my palm, letting it hum faintly. Alive. Patient. Waiting. Shadows move differently when Voraciel is in hand. Even the air seems heavier, tuned to something that ordinary people cannot perceive.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience. Observation. Calculation. Intent.
The first step beyond Merrow had been taken. The world did not notice. I did not announce it. Ordinary life continued, unaware of the shadow walking among them.
I smiled faintly. The world is predictable. Mistakes are everywhere. And I am just beginning.